


Safe House

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Mild Profanity, Sexual Situations, Snark, Use of Muggle items, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy Parkinson’s carefree world was toppled when she overheard her father’s murder and caught a glimpse of the killer. Forced into hiding by the Ministry, she is compelled to co-habitate with, of all the bloody people on the planet, Harry Potter. Can these two live together in cramped quarters without there being another murder, or can they find common ground that had eluded them since they last encountered one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the pphpficexchange on LiveJournal under the title The Runaways, which received the Runner-Up for Best Angst.

With one last twirl in front of the mirror, a twenty-one-year-old Pansy Parkinson nodded in satisfaction at her reflection. Not only was her hair perfect, her make-up was pristine and her dress hugged her body in all the right places. Moreover, she would look slightly better than Daphne Greengrass, who was poorer and couldn’t afford the best things. And she always looked better than Tracey Davis, who was too tall and overweight. As for Millicent Bulstrode . . . she wasn’t even on the list of possible threats to Pansy’s superior attractiveness; her night was more likely to, once again, end with her shagging the first bloke who showed the slightest interest in the loo of the club they were going to.  
  
Pansy shot one last glance at the mirror before picking up her purse and going down her night-out checklist. Wand: check. Emergency make-up: check. Contraceptive potion: definitely check. Money: one . . . two . . . three . . . four Galleons. “Damn,” she muttered aloud. That would barely be enough to get her intoxicated, let alone noticed by anyone of any import. She would need at least twenty for that. It seemed almost a blessing that her father was downstairs in his home office instead of travelling for once. All she had to do was flash him a smile and appear bashful about asking and he would hand her the key to the family’s Gringotts vault. He would easily part with twenty Galleons. _No_ , she thought. _Make that thirty._  
  
Cognisant but uncaring that she was already twenty minutes late for the scheduled rendezvous with the rest of her party, Pansy trotted down the staircase to the ground floor. At the base of the steps, she situated her face to appear demure and tugged upward on the neckline of her dress to reduce the amount of forbidden flesh on display. She even practised a few token eye-bats for good measure before proceeding down the hall toward her father’s office.   
  
Surprise spoiled her efforts as Pansy caught the sound of voices wafted out of that very room. She couldn’t quite make out what was being said, only that there were likely two and both were male. Careful of disturbing whatever was transpiring and risking a lesser allowance for the night, she crept toward the door and sat on the chaise near it as if she were waiting her turn. A decorative snake plant shielded her from view of the slightly-ajar door, but the dull rustling of its flicking, tongue-like leaves making it difficult for her to hear what was going on inside. With a bit of leaning and a lot of straining, Pansy was finally able to make out some phrases, albeit patchily.   
  
“. . . know I have no choice!” This hissed declaration had come from her father, Edward. “. . . watching me . . . give them something.”  
  
The second voice — definitely not her father’s — was far clearer, and it was infinitely more chilling. “Do not play games with me, Parkinson. An idiot could see you’re only testifying to curry favour with the Mudblood-lovers.” The sneer in his tone was unmistakable.   
  
“I would never!” Edward fired back. “They hardly matter. Business is business. Being investigated for financing Death Eater activities is _not_ good business!” The abrupt screech of a chair being pulled out was sharp in contrast to the otherwise quiet conversation. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Damage control,” the unknown man said frostily.  
  
Fear frothed in Pansy’s stomach, especially when Edward’s response never came. She crept from her seat and closer to the door, trying her best not to betray her presence. It was not until she was mere inches from the door that she heard it: a tell-tale gurgling sound, almost like drowning. Her blood ran cold. Of its own accord, her hand slipped into her purse to withdraw her wand, but she could barely keep a hold on it for the trembling. Casting any sort of spell seemed like a tall order at that moment.  
  
However, even her gentle shaking ceased when there was a sickening _snap_ , followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Pansy’s pulse pounded so loudly in her ears that she was sure it would give her presence away. She wanted to desperately to know who it was who had fallen and to qualm her fear that she had misconstrued the sounds within and that she was overreacting.   
  
Several moments passed by before she started to smell smoke. Something was burning, and when a yellowish glow began to emanate from the small expanse of the slightly open door, Pansy knew that it was coming from inside the office. Panic began to assert itself, and her instinctual desire to run away became too potent to ignore. She began to back away from the door and further down the hall toward the kitchens, which had an exit. The house could burn down for all she cared; she knew what she needed to know. Her father never even allowed candles in his office for fear of setting his precious bookkeeping aflame.  
  
Pansy stumbled as she cursed her footwear for being decorative rather than practical, wincing when the heel of her shoe clacked against the uncarpeted floorboards and echoed through the hall. Annoyed, she slipped them off and padded barefoot through the corridor. She occasionally turned to look behind her, hoping that whoever her father’s hostile guest was didn’t see her and decide that she’d seen too much.  
  
The squeak of a door opening sent Pansy diving behind the nearest large object, which was a fortuitously placed sister to the snake plant she’d sat next to earlier. She could see the opened door sporadically through the leaves and, finally, who was exiting. A tall, black-haired man emerged and glanced back into the smouldering office before shutting the door and flicking his wand at the latch. Though he was a fair distance away, she could swear that he was smirking.  
  
She was not a fool; there had been little chance of her father being the one who emerged from that room. But not even that knowledge could quell the bite of tears in the corner of her eyes as the intruder spun on his heel and strolled toward the foyer as if he owned the place. They tracked unchecked down her face for fear of alerting the killer of her presence.   
  
And then he stopped walking, mere feet away from the exit. Turning slowly, the man stared down the hallway, not at her directly but seemingly past her. Pansy bit down hard on her lip to keep her breathing as quiet as possible, but she could not contain the huff of terror that managed to penetrate the barrier when his eyes finally settled on something — her shoes. She saw his head tilt as if considering them closely.   
  
It took all her willpower not to jump when he flicked his wand, nearly expecting it to be a deadly, verdant flash. Instead, though, a silken blue plane of energy pulsed down the entire expanse of the hall and seemingly into every orifice of the house. Pansy hadn’t been an excellent Charms student, but she definitely knew what that had been. Her hand clenched around her own wand in preparation for his attack, especially since he knew for certain that she was there and where she was.   
  
Instead, even from afar, she could see the icy smile on his face as his wand slashed through the air once more. “ _Incendio_.”  
  
Flames coursed from the tip of his wand, catching hold of everything it touched and soaking the carpeting with its ravenous embers. Pansy stood stock still, too afraid to give herself away yet feeling the heat steadily growing as it neared her. All she could do was gape as the fire marched closer and closer. She couldn’t see the man anymore through the borderline inferno, and she could finally escape without being seen. That was, of course, if she could get her legs to move to escape from the Anti-Apparition Ward.  
  
Then she remembered that there were no more wards, because her father had cast them and was now dead. A sick feeling curdled in her belly when she caught herself being thankful for this fact, but nonetheless, she squeezed her eyes shut and felt herself being squeezed into the blissfully cold darkness.  
  
Cold stone greeted Pansy’s bare feet as she landed on the Ministry of Magic’s Apparition platform in the Atrium. Her limbs finally responding to her commands once again, she half-jogged, half-ran toward the lifts, all the while ignoring the security desk wizard shouting for her to stop and check in her wand. Once she reached the nearest unoccupied lift, she wheezed, “Level Two,” at the automated voice’s prompt.  
  
Once she disembarked, she was greeted by a large placard that read ‘Department of Magical Law Enforcement’. The only person in sight was a middle-aged witch sitting behind a desk with her face shoved into a book, seemingly incognisant that someone else was in the area.   
  
“Hello!” Pansy said as the woman ignored her. “ _Hello_!” she repeated, with no result. Angrily, she jabbed her wand at the book and Vanished it, which finally caught the receptionist’s attention.  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” said the woman, whose nametag said Margaret Whitcock. “You’re on the security screening list for failure to check in your wand. Someone will be with you shortly.”  
  
Almost on cue, three men in matching royal purple robes strode out from the doorway next to the reception desk. Two of them were seemingly engaged in a humorous conversation, but the third’s mouth was set in a stern line the second he caught sight of her. She could see that he recognised her as quickly as she had known him.  
  
One of the more jovial Aurors reined in his amusement and said, “Miss, if you could come with us.”  
  
Not in the mood to prod old wounds, Pansy simply nodded and allowed herself to be surrounded and led into a dim room. It was bereft of anything but a table, chairs, writing implements, and a water cooler. She was escorted to one of the seats and given a cup of water, which she only sipped due to the feeling that she could throw up at any moment. The light-hearted duo waited patiently for her to begin on her terms, but _he_ was not as lenient.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Harry asked bluntly.  
  
Pansy didn’t have the energy to snap back at him. Whatever reserve of composure she’d used to get there was depleted, and all she wanted to do was sit on the floor and cry like a child. But that wasn’t an option. Inhaling deeply, she willed her voice to sound stronger than she felt. “If you’re not here to do your job, Potter, I would like to speak to someone else who is.”  
  
Harry opened his mouth as if to respond, but one of the other Aurors spoke before he got the chance. “Has something happened to your father, Miss Parkinson?”  
  
This question caused Pansy to start. “How did you —”  
  
“If you’ll come with me, Miss —” the Auror said with a kind smile, “— we will take your statement right away.”  
  
Sending Harry one last scathing glance, she followed the _nice_ Auror to a conference room in the back of the department. But when he showed her to her seat, he merely stood next to the door and stared straight ahead, saying nothing. The lack of talking was beginning to aggravate Pansy; however, before she could openly complain or at least demand a beverage, another man came in and sat across from her. Where the first Auror had been in his thirties, the second was at least twice his age. A series of scars disfigured his countenance, and Pansy flinched when she saw that the man had an angry slash across his throat right underneath his chin.  
  
“Gift of the trade, Miss Parkinson,” he said, correctly guessing the source of her distaste. Over his shoulder, he called, “That’ll be all, Dawlish.” Without another word, Dawlish left the room. Once the door was closed, the older man removed his wand and cast a series of spells that she did not recognise. As soon as he was finished, he extended his hand and said, “The name’s Eugene Proudfoot, Head of the Auror Department.”  
  
Relieved that she was finally speaking to someone qualified, Pansy said, “I need your help.”  
  
Nodding, Proudfoot said, “Of course. Tell me everything.”  
  
Pansy watched Proudfoot’s facial expressions change as she recounted what she had seen and heard with a surprisingly level tone. When she was finished, she felt depleted and ready to leave, but the old Auror did not appear as if he was going to let her do that.  
  
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?” he asked in a chilled voice. Pansy nodded, and he muttered, “Damn.”   
  
Staring at him blankly, Pansy asked, “Can I go now?” Something in his face made her want to leave before he said something she didn’t want to hear. Also, she wasn’t sure how much longer the numbness to which she was currently clinging was going to last. Steeling herself, she said, “I need to find my mother and let her know what’s happened.”  
  
Proudfoot shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Parkinson. It’s far too dangerous for you to be on your own.”  
  
Whatever she had feared he would tell her, Pansy was sure that he was about to do so. “And why is that?” she asked resignedly.  
  
“You said he saw you. There’s a strong possibility that he could come after you, as well.”  
  
The blood drained from her face as she shook her head vigorously. “No! My _shoes_! He saw my _shoes_!”  
  
“You’re an intelligent girl. How long do you suppose it’ll take for him to figure out whose shoes they were?” Dropping his voice to a strangely sympathetic tone, he added, “Whoever is capable of this won’t stop at hurting your father. With what’s at stake, I don’t think he’ll have any problem with doing the same to you.”  
  
A shiver went through Pansy at the readiness with which Proudfoot said this, the no-nonsense statement that was more matter-of-fact than supposition. But what scared her the most was that she didn’t know what to do. For the moment, her mother was out of town at cosmetics product conference in Geneva, but she would be returning in a few days. If whoever this bloke was wanted to make an example out of her father, he could very well go after her mother, as well.   
  
“Wh-what about my mum?” Pansy asked. “She’s in Geneva right now, and…”   
  
Nodding, Proudfoot said, “We will be sending a message to the Swiss Ministry of Magic to hold your mother in the country in a safe environment until an envoy can collect her and keep her secure here. But for now, we need to worry about you first.”  
  
“What are you going to do?”  
  
Proudfoot rubbed his chin in concentration before saying, “We’ll have to set up a safe house in a place where they won’t think to look for you. You’ll have a personal guard at all times, and, if necessary, this person will fight to the death to keep you safe.”  
  
Pansy immediately warmed to the idea of her own personal bodyguard. She nodded slightly and said, “Fine. When do we go?”


	2. Chapter 2

“You can _not_ be serious!” Pansy exclaimed as she examined the pile of clothing that she had been given. “Potter, I’m not wearing that.”

“Yes, you are,” Harry said flatly. “The more you look like a Muggle and not yourself, the safer you’ll be.”

Pansy poked the offending garments with her finger as if they would explode on contact. “Are you completely bereft of colour sense? Or do you actually think I enjoy vomit green?”

Pushing the bundle curtly to her chest, Harry said, “I frankly don’t give a damn what you like. If you want to live through this, you do what I say and shut up.”

With a gasp, Pansy sneered, “Are you telling me . . . this has to be a joke. _You’re_ my bodyguard?” She didn’t bother to keep the distaste from her voice.

Harry rubbed his temples, his eyes averted. Pansy could swear he was counting to himself. After he got to what she estimated to be fifteen, he spoke. “Do you really think this is what I wanted?”

“Frankly, yes,” she said, tossing the clothing on the floor. Pansy stood toe to toe with Harry, her eyes narrowed. “This is your way at getting back at me.”

His expression was incredulous, but she wasn’t fooled. “I think you want to get back at me for Hogwarts.”

“Ha!” Harry barked. “That hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

Crossing her arms, Pansy said, “You can’t tell me you haven’t stewed about me wanting to hand you over to You-Know-Who.”

Harry shrugged. “Not really. I know why you did it, and in the end, it was what I ended up doing anyway. I really hadn’t thought about it.” He pulled out his wand with a flick, Summoned the clothing she’d discarded, and pushed the pile back into her arms. “Now that that’s cleared up, can we please just get on with this?”

Pansy cast him a wary glance before sighing resignedly. “Fine. Where do I change?”

“Right here.”

“ _What_?!” she screeched. “I’m not changing in front of you.”

Rubbing his temples once more, Harry said, “I’m not going to look. But I’m not supposed to so much as let you leave the room unsupervised. And, frankly, I don’t trust you with your own safety. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, and if you want to make it to twenty-two, you’re just going to have to live with it.”

It was becoming alarmingly apparent that Harry wasn’t joking when he turned around and began drumming his hands on his thighs. Restraining a cry of frustration, Pansy swiped at the ghastly T-shirt before sliding out of her slinky party dress. Already embarrassed at her bare skin, she quickly pulled on the shirt, the curious trousers, and nondescript sandals she’d been provided. Curious at the waistband of the bottoms, she pulled on it, only to find that it stretched. “What is this supposed to be?”

“I have no idea. I’m not looking at it.”

Brow furrowed in concentration, Pansy muttered, “It’s stretchy. I thought these were Muggle clothes.”

She heard him snort with laughter. “It’s called elastic. Just because they’re Muggles, it doesn’t mean they’re stupid and can’t do some of the same things we can do.”

Pansy wanted to snap at him and tell him that wasn’t what she meant, but it was exactly what she had meant. Instead, she let the waistband slap down on her hip and said, “You can turn around now.”

When Harry turned, he tittered to himself upon seeing her, and Pansy wanted badly to slap him. “It’s not funny, Potter. You don’t have to wear this . . . this _tent_!” She tugged outward on the bottom hem of her T-shirt to indicate its ample size.

“It doesn’t look that big.”

“Well, it’s bigger on the inside!” she hissed. She snatched up her dress and said, “Let’s go. I’m tired, and I’d really like to sleep.”

Gesturing toward the door, Harry said, “Then we’ll head to the Atrium. We’re Apparating into a secluded area and walking to the place we’ll be staying.”

She opened her mouth to comment that he was still wearing Auror robes, but before she could utter a syllable, those robes whooshed over his head and landed on the table. Underneath, he was wearing a plain grey T-shirt and bottoms that were quite similar to hers. This was when Pansy started to have a sneaking suspicion. “Am I . . . wearing your clothes?”

“Yes.”

It took everything she had not to scream in frustration. She was incognito, not in drag. It wouldn’t have killed him to find her women’s clothes. But she was too tired to argue anymore, so she simply stalked out of the door and toward the lifts. The muffled sound of laughter followed her, but Pansy simply gritted her teeth and made a mental note to take the piss out of Harry when her mental faculties were restored and she didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Once they reached the Atrium, they stepped onto the nearest Apparition pad. Harry held out his arm, which Pansy regarded with distaste. “I’m not Side-Alonging with you. You’ll Splinch me on purpose; I know it. I’ll Apparate myself.”

Harry growled in annoyance. “Well, then what do you suggest? You don’t even know where we’re going. We could walk there. It’s only about a _hundred mile trip_. Piece of cake.” Rolling his eyes, his arms wrapped around her waist, but before she could object, he yanked her to his chest just as the squeezing feeling of Apparition took hold.

When they arrived, Pansy gasped for air before kicking Harry in the shin, delighting in the profanity he uttered under his breath. She didn’t even care that the open toe of her footwear had caused the brunt of the attack to fall on her foot. The war waging in his head that pitted his duty to protect with the desire to hex her was obvious and so very delicious to her.

Showing restraint that even she half-admired, Harry gritted his teeth and ground out, “This way.” They set out through a moderately populated city block, passing hordes of Muggles on the way, none of whom paid them any heed to them. Pansy couldn’t help but stare at the more oddly dressed people, some of whom had all manner of piercings and tattoos. Some of them had brightly-coloured hair, and others had hair that was pulled into actual shapes. She couldn’t help but gawk at one of these strange creatures, whose hair was plastered into a tall, pointy ridge on top of their head. The curious part about that was, however, that Pansy wasn’t sure whether this person was a man or a woman.

A hand closing around her waist jarred Pansy from her reverie. Before she knew it, Harry’s body was pressed against hers as his forehead lightly touched hers. “Stop doing that,” he hissed. “You stare at the wrong person and you’re liable to get knifed in an area like this.”

His words seemed so odd, considering his mouth was pulled into an almost comically large smile. Realising that he knew far more about the location than she did, Pansy reluctantly smiled back to perpetuate the illusion that they were a random Muggle couple stopping their stroll for a quick snog. She would, however, be damned if she would actually kiss him. Her stomach was already in knots and upset as it was.

Taking care to not watch anything but the pavement ahead of them, they soon arrived at a tiny house in the midst of a sea of yet more tiny houses. Pansy wondered how Muggles managed to fit their entire lives into these miniscule cubicles that were barely larger than her bedroom at home. That thought jerked something inside of her wide awake. “Wh-what about my house?”

“Proudfoot sent someone to take care of the fire. I don’t know what the state of the entire place is, but next time I receive news, I’ll ask after it.”

What she really wanted was for him to find out immediately, if only so she could be sent proper clothing, but from the iron set of his jaw, she knew that the more she asked for things, the less likely she would be to get them. Perhaps later would be the more prudent option. So, instead, she simply said nothing and filled her head with the most menial thoughts she could as Harry let them both in and cast protective enchantments, such as how long it had taken her friends to move on without her and go out anyway, as well as whether Millicent had already shagged some random stranger who was too drunk to notice how ugly she was.

She finally took note of her surroundings. If the house had looked small from the outside, the interior was even more so. Everything looked weathered and ancient and dingy and horrible, and Pansy just wanted to go home, where her mother wasn’t away on business half the time and her father hadn’t been murdered by a mad Death Eater.

That last thought caused a squeak of grief to escape unbidden. And then came another. Within moments, her shoulders shook as she choked out sob after sob. Everything about her life had changed and could never change back. Since she had Apparated to the Ministry, her brain had managed to block out this inevitability, but as her resolution was swiftly surpassed by her weariness, the front started to crumble and so did she.

Harry’s arms wrapped around her, holding her steady as she leant heavily on him. She bawled into the warmth of his chest, barely aware that he had picked her up, for soon, she was lying in a bed and had covers pulled up over her quaking shoulders. Uncaring of the source of these comforts, she burrowed into them, absorbing the gentle reassurances that he was muttering and the soothing repetition of his hand gently stroking her hair. A protest grew in her lungs when he stopped and held a phial to her lips, but the voice said it would help her forget and that she should drink. Lulled by the voice, she complied and was rewarded by the continuation of those wonderful ministrations.

Sleep came rapidly.

 

When Pansy awoke, the sun was already high above, and with a glance at the clock on the nightstand, it was nearly noon. Looking around for her omnipresent bodyguard, she saw no one. It was then that she noticed the sound of the shower in the adjacent bathroom. She smiled. Searching in the hopes of finding her wand in a pile of cast-off clothing, she was rewarded when her hand closed around what felt like success. Drawing it out, though, she frowned to find that it was not hers; however, it would do. Just a quick trip to whatever was left of her house for some clothes, and Harry would never be the wiser.

Concentrating on the space just inside her bedroom door, Pansy squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the pressing sensation of Apparition, but it never came. Instead, a chuckle came from behind her. Pansy spun around to find Harry leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

“That’ll be the Anti-Apparition Ward,” he said with a smirk.

She couldn’t help but stare at the man that, up until this moment, she’d found to be vastly unattractive. He wore no spectacles, and the way his sodden hair hung down suited his face well. Beads of moisture shone from the hairs what were sprinkled across the breadth of his chest before slowly drizzling downward and disappearing into the towel. For someone who had looked average at best in clothing, his physique without it was definitely a surprise — and not a bad one.

So lost was Pansy in her observation that she started when he reached over and plucked his wand from her hand. She jerked her head back to meet his eyes, but the mirth was gone, replaced by annoyance. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t try that again. The second you are seen, you could be tracked.” He stalked by her, grabbing his clothing off the floor and casting a Drying Charm on himself before pulling his shirt on. Seeing that he had an audience, he hissed, “Do you mind?”

Rolling her eyes, Pansy turned her back, her lips twitching as she caught glimpses of his rather nice backside in the mirror in the corner. But as quickly as it started, Harry’s unintentional show was over and he swung open the door to the bathroom and said, “Your turn, if you like.”

“But I don’t have any clean clothes,” Pansy said as if he were mad. “What’s the point of showering if you put on smelly clothes?”

Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you can at least brush your teeth or fix your hair.”

Shooting him a glare, Pansy strode into the bathroom to do just that. It annoyed her that he stood in the doorway rather than staying outside the bathroom. As if he sensed her dissent, Harry said, “You’ve already proven I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes. Deal with it.”

She begrudgingly began her morning ablutions and left the loo as quickly as possible. What Pansy really wanted was a bit of private time in there, but she hadn’t the foggiest idea how she was going to achieve that whilst Harry was following her around fur on a Kneazle. Instead, though, she followed him into the kitchen where she supposed she would be expected to cobble together breakfast (or lunch, rather) for herself, but she found herself sitting and watching as Harry sifted through tins of food in the pantry and various items in the freezer. In short order, the room was filled with the pleasant smells of cooking.

After ten minutes of this, Harry prepared two plates and set one down in front of her. As she hadn’t eaten in almost an entire day, Pansy wanted to devour every last morsel of it, but she held back almost on principle. Skewering one of the chunks of meat with her fork, she asked, “What is this?”

Taking a bite of his own food, Harry said, “It’s called spam. Best not think about it and just eat it. It tastes good, so . . . just eat it.”

Not liking the ominous sound of that, Pansy scraped the bit off of her fork and instead went for the pan-fried vegetables that he had pulled from the freezer, as she could identity those. But soon, she was nearly finished with the greens, leaving only the mysterious meat on the plate. And she was still quite hungry, so she quickly stuffed a chunk of the meat in her mouth. The flavour was nearly unidentifiable, but it was pleasant overall, despite the certainty that it was loaded with fats. Not quite ready to concede that she enjoyed it, Pansy pulled a sour face as she regarded the next bite.

However, Harry didn’t seem to be affected at all by the show she was putting on, so Pansy resumed her meal until it was all finished and washed it down with some dodgy-tasting tap water. He then cleared away the remnants and started the washing up, curiously, without magic. She wanted to ask him why but decided against it, not wanting to make him think that, after the scene in the bedroom earlier, that she was interested. Instead, she asked the question that she’d actively avoided for not truly wanting to know the answer. “Why did that man kill my dad?”

Harry stopped mid-dish and set it down in the sink. His deep inhalation told her that he had been waiting for her to ask, and she wondered if it was a sign that he didn’t know what to tell her. Perhaps he was only allowed to tell her certain things and knew she wouldn’t like it. Either way, she repeated the question and waited for him to respond.

At last, after a seemingly interminable amount of time, Harry asked her, “How much do you know about what your dad’s business does?”

When Pansy considered this, she was embarrassed that she could honestly say she barely knew anything other than the basic description. “He helped people find businesses to buy into.” She nearly yelped when the past tense verb rolled off her tongue. “But other than that, I don’t know. I’m not good with maths.”

He sighed, evidently hoping that he would be spared further explanation, but nonetheless, he went on. “Well, on the surface, yes, that’s what the business does. I mean more on the lines of what they do when no one’s looking.” Seeing Pansy’s confused frown, he elaborated. “After the First Wizarding War, because of the amount of damage old, pure-blood money had done whilst funding Death Eater campaigns, the Ministry made it illegal for any single party to donate over a certain amount to any individual or group. However, the Ministry evidently isn’t well versed enough in accounting, because this was easily worked around, and your dad was one of the best.

“He managed to work out a system that was not only perfectly legal as to the current interpretation of the law, but it made him buckets of money. And this was how he managed to help a number of Death Eaters contribute to Voldemort’s cause. He was going to help us identify some of them, and in exchange, this information was never going to be released and hurt his legitimate investment business.”

Pansy knew that her face was paler than parchment at that moment. Even she knew better than to double-cross Death Eaters and their ilk, and his foolhardiness had cost him his life and effectively toppled hers. She was torn between screaming in rage and dissolving into tears again, but she instead chose to remain calm and get as much information as she could. “Were any of them actually arrested because of his evidence?”

“Four of them were, but we’re running out of time to hold them in lock-up, since all the evidence is now gone.” The air of frustration in his voice was palpable.

“So it was pointless,” she said blandly. Pansy had changed her mind; instead of screaming or crying, she wanted to throw up. That meant that every single one of her father’s ex-clients not currently in Azkaban could be out to kill her or her mother as a warning to anyone else who decided to do the same as her father had.

She shot a glance toward Harry and caught his sympathetic look. “So now you know why I need you to stay here and not be seen. If the wrong person spots you, it could cost you your life.” Pansy nodded solemnly. “Glad you understand that. Maybe now you can use the bathroom without me having to be there to supervise.”

A chuckle escaped Pansy at this statement, but more than anything, she was glad she wouldn’t have to work out the logistics of showering and such with someone watching her. With that in mind, she said, “I hope I can take you up on that now. I would dearly love a good soak.”

Nodding, Harry said, “Fine. I’ll see what I can do about getting you a change of clothes.” Evidently finished with the conversation, he pulled back his chair and proceeded into the bedroom. About ten minutes later, he emerged with a bundle of clothing and a taut frown. “Here.”

Pansy examined his offerings. These garments were decidedly female and relatively modern, but she couldn’t help but ask, “What are you doing with women’s clothing?”

“They were Ginny’s,” Harry said quickly before resuming the washing.

The presence of things belonging to Harry’s very publicly _ex_ -girlfriend made Pansy ask something that had been brewing in her head for a while. “Where are we, anyway?”

“This is my place.”

Biting back a comment about his housekeeping skills, or lack thereof, Pansy instead said a cryptic, “Ah.” It explained why there was food in the house and that the bed sheets had been relatively clean. Looking around as if she hadn’t already done it before, she asked casually, “So how long do you think we’ll be shut in here?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “At least as long as it takes to take down your father’s killer.”

His words hung in the air, and Pansy had the dreadful feeling that it could take a long time before she saw the light of day again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be sexual situations. You know you were waiting for it.

“Well, I said ‘please’.”  
  
“And I said ‘no’,” Harry said, not looking up from his oft-read two months out-of-date copy of the _Daily Prophet_.   
  
“Oh, come on, Potter! A walk, that’s all it is. I won’t try to escape, and this place is crawling with Muggles. No one’s going to find us here.”  
  
Folding the edge of the paper downward, Harry raised a brow and said, “And I suppose you’re willing to bet your life on that.” With a swish, the paper returned to its original position. “You can’t be _that_ stupid.”  
  
Pansy couldn’t stop herself from stamping her foot. “It smells like dirty socks in here. At least open a bloody window!”  
  
“Not happening,” Harry said flatly. When Pansy uttered an angry squeak, he folded the paper and said, “We’ll be moving you to a new location soon anyway. You’ll probably be assigned a new guard, and you will probably get to order some new clothes and personal items then.”  
  
Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by a new guard? Sick of me already?”  
  
“Since you walked in the door, Princess. But you aren’t even on my radar of things that really piss me off.” He grabbed the television remote and turned on the unit. “License fees, for example.”  
  
Having no idea what that meant, Pansy rolled her eyes and shut the TV off with the button on the front. “I don’t even know why you watch that contraption. You can’t even interact with the characters.”  
  
“I get enough talking back from you, so I prefer my entertainment to be dull. Besides, _Star Trek_ is on in a couple minutes.” Flicking the telly back on, he said, “Now move.”  
  
“How is that show even slightly entertaining? It just means it takes Muggles centuries to figure out what wizards already know.”  
  
“Because,” Harry said with a groan, “by that time in human evolution, people are able to hold that sort of power and _not_ blow the shit out of each other. Now,” gesturing angrily toward the other end of the sofa, he barked, “sit down and shut up.”  
  
Knowing that fighting with him over TV programmes wouldn’t get her anywhere, Pansy sat next to him and watched along with him. Truthfully, she didn’t mind the show. What she did mind was that, while riddled with inconveniences, things with Harry were simple, and the idea of having to share a small space with someone who was less tolerant than Harry scared her. She gave him hell most days, but he hardly even reacted apart from a weak barb or quip, instead favouring reading the same copy of the _Prophet_ over and over or whiling away the time with Muggle playing cards. Half the time, she couldn’t even discern whether he was in a good or bad mood.  
  
Diverting her thoughts from anything resembling affection for her jailer, Pansy grabbed the well-read newspaper and decided to find out what was worth reading copious times. It didn’t take long to spot, and she could’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “ _Holyhead’s new Assistant Captain: The Truth and Lies about Ginny Weasley_ ,” Pansy read in a mocking voice. “Potter, please tell me you’re not _that_ pathetic. Carrying a torch for an ex is one thing, but this is just sad.” Holding back the paper and examining the half-page photo spread, she frowned. “She’s not even pretty. She’s always scowling.”  
  
Snatching the paper away from Pansy, Harry hissed, “Because she’s looking at you.” He folded it and returned it to its former location. “She thinks you’re a bloody cow. Smart woman.” Turning back toward the TV, he turned up the volume to a level not conducive to conversation.  
  
Nerve: struck. Pansy was wary of doing so again, because the longer she stayed in his good graces, perhaps the longer it would take him to be rid of her. Co-habiting a space with him wasn’t restful or luxurious, but it was easy and tolerable. She found the arrangement agreeable, despite him sleeping at the foot of her bed and listening to her waking up from frequent nightmares. But when he did hear, he was kind and gave her Dreamless Sleep Draught. When she thought of her wrecked family and even further wrecked life and cried like a baby, he let her cry into his shoulder and didn’t grumble about her snotting on his shirt. Even six weeks after they had first arrived, he was still patient with her grief, and though she would never say so to his face, Pansy was grateful for that.  
  
“Do I really need a new guard?” she asked weakly once the programme had ended and the volume had been restored to a comfortable level.   
  
“People are starting to notice I don’t come into the Ministry every day. Right now, they’re circulating that I’m taking a holiday, but six weeks is already too long as it is.” Clicking off the television, he added, “The switch happens in three days so I can return to work on Monday. If you want anything waiting for you when you get there, make a list now, and I’ll let them know to have it waiting for you.” He glanced over at her and saw that her mouth had opened to say something, but he cut her off and said sternly, “ _Reasonable_ requests.”  
  
Pansy frowned. She doubted he would consider better shampoo as a reasonable request, so she simply made a mental note to requisition undergarments that weren’t used and a couple heavier jumpers, as the weather was beginning to turn cold.   
  
As she tabulated her shopping list in her head, Pansy became aware that Harry was looking at her in an odd way. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to stare at people?”  
  
However, instead of breaking his eye contact, Harry pulled a half-smile and said, “You know, you aren’t quite as horrible as I thought you’d be. You’re almost tolerable to be around.”  
  
Not exactly enthused by his statement, Pansy said sarcastically, “Oh, and I was _really_ looking forward to shacking up with you. A miracle I lasted this long, isn’t it? Thank Circe you haven’t sainted me to death.”  
  
Harry’s face was completely deadpan, and for a moment, Pansy thought he might not have caught on that she wasn’t being earnest, but just as she opened her mouth to apologise — yes, apologise — he threw his head back and laughed. This only served to confuse her though, because she didn’t know if he was laughing with her or at her. Nervously, she joined in and felt the tension between them ease.  
  
It shocked her inwardly to admit it, but Pansy Parkinson well and truly liked Harry Potter. He was all right.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Harry asked for the third time.  
  
Pansy harrumphed. “How much damned stuff do you think I came with? Of course I’ve got it all.”  
  
It was the day that Pansy was leaving, and her escort was set to arrive in a little under an hour to see her safely to her next safe location. This one was also slated to be in a Muggle area, but on the other side of the country. Harry had assured her that the location was safe and her new guard trustworthy, but after everything that had happened, the last thing she needed was to be uprooted from this weird little safe haven she’d carved out with Harry. The thought of returning to her family home, which sat vacant despite the fire damage repair having been completed weeks prior, almost felt like a myth at this point. Hiding from the world was akin to breathing, a fact of existence.   
  
She considered the man who stood across from her, eyeing a checklist for the veritable tenth time. He needed no one. Pansy couldn’t remember a time in her life where she could’ve said that about herself. Her continued existence had always been dependent on someone else in some capacity, whether it was her lack of ability to cook or to clean or any other menial task that someone like Harry could do without even thinking.   
  
But he punished himself, she thought. He could have any woman he wanted, what with being who he was, fairly good looking and sort of sexy in a dorky way. Yet he spent his days poring over a picture of the one woman who had turned him down flat, and he cried in his sleep from time to time, likely thinking about his precious little Weaselette. What Harry needed, Pansy decided, was an intervention.  
  
“Potter, you need to get laid,” she said bluntly. Pansy felt a small spark of victory when he physically jerked in surprise. She smiled to herself, commending her own analysis skills. She was right, and he definitely needed to cut loose a bit. “And steer clear of the redheads. They’ll all end up looking like the Weasel girl if you don’t.” She let this stew for a moment before adding, “Make her a blonde. Find one with big tits, loose morals, and wants to spend your money for you. Lather, rinse, repeat.”   
  
Harry blinked at her outburst before saying, “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
Leaning in toward his ear, Pansy let her voice hum against his ear, “Get out of your little rat cage here and there and _live_ a little. Be spontaneous.”  
  
Their eyes met and their gazes held for seemingly an eternity before the last thing Pansy had expected happened: Harry pushed her up against the kitchen table and kissed her more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed before. An almost primal growl vibrated from his chest and down her own throat, sending a shiver through her veins. But as soon as it started, the borderline grating contact ceased, and Harry backed away from her. Not looking away from her, he wiped the latent moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“What the hell was that?” she demanded.  
  
“No idea,” Harry said, his voice bereft of its normal calm. “But it was probably very stupid.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his fingers into his hair, pulling at it violently. “God, you are so annoying!” Glaring at her like a lunatic, he shouted in frustration. “You whine constantly; you never shut up while the TV’s on; you have an opinion about _everything_! Every time I see you thinking, I wonder what the hell I’ve done wrong and what mad thing you’ll do to get back at me.  
  
“When you take forty-five minute showers before it’s my turn to get in, I want to strangle you, but then you come out with that little smirk on your face that tells me you did it to deliberately piss me off . . . I’ve never been so irrationally angry with someone in my life.”  
  
Still gobsmacked by the kiss, Pansy ignored his diatribe against her very personality and yanked his head toward hers for another kiss. She had never experienced this brand of passion before: wanting to hate whilst hating to want. Somehow, she felt the deep-seeded need to have his hands all over her body yet still torture him into further fits of frenzy like he had just expressed. And she was going to do that right then and there.   
  
She grinned against his lips as her hand slid toward the fastening of his jeans, deftly uncoupling the button before inching down the zipper. He made a move to stop her, but she captured his hand and redirected it to do her bidding. Slowly, she manoeuvred his own fingers to trace up and down the length of his member, which strained against the fabric of his underwear. Pansy felt the shudder ripple throughout his body; it tantalised her.   
  
Harry ripped his mouth from hers, chest heaving for air, and gasped, “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“Being spontaneous.” She put her finger over his lips as if to demand his silence before trailing that digit downward and downward, until she reached the waistband of his pants. Sliding it slowly underneath the elastic band, she then quickly jerked outward and downward, leaving his manhood fully exposed. Harry was shaking under her ministrations, his eyes closed as if in pain, but Pansy knew better as she slowly lowered herself to her knees.   
  
Her lips only brushed the head and he was already muttering profanities under his breath. When she plunged his entire length into her mouth down to the hilt, she inwardly revelled when his knees buckled and was forced to grasp the edge of the table for support. He was completely at her mercy, and she had only just started. This control spiced her senses as she languidly pulled away. She was smirking to the point of sneering as she looked up at him in all of his subjugated glory. And when she zig-zagged her tongue torturously across the most sensitive of nerves, he bit his lip and whimpered.  
  
It shocked her at first when Harry thrust himself into Pansy’s mouth, but she enjoyed this shift in dynamics almost more than controlling him like her own personal puppet. Even when the pressure against the back of her throat made her gag reflexively, she didn’t care. The sight of his near loss of control fulfilled her in unimaginable ways. She did this to him. Not that fluff haired beaver he called his best friend, nor that ginger, tomboy bitch who broke his heart. And she’d done it without even trying.  
  
Finally, she let him know that she was back in control by sliding her teeth against his reddening cock. She rose to her feet and glanced her lips across his, making him taste his own flavour before whispering in his ear. “Fuck me, Potter. Fuck me like you hate me.”  
  
Her breath was snatched from her lungs as Harry pushed her backward and roughly onto the table. His hands impatiently tugged at her still-fastened trousers, the cloth digging into her skin and leaving friction burns on her belly and hips, but she didn’t care. It only served to pour more sensation into her molten centre; at that moment, pain and need felt blindingly similar.  
  
When her bottoms had been divested of by sheer force and adrenalin, Pansy delighted in the feel of the slightly chilled air tickling the moisture between her legs. She knew very well she wasn’t quite wet enough, but that was how she wanted it. The anticipation nearly made her repeat her demand, but she wanted him to think it was his will and not hers.  
  
Harry unceremoniously threw her left leg over his shoulder and slammed himself into her. His vocal chords thrummed with a feral cry that ratcheted up in volume as he plunged over and over again into her. Her shrieks of ecstasy were discordant against his as if both were trying to outmatch the other. It was only when he spilled himself inside her that their strains died down to ragged breaths vying for sustenance.  
  
With him still inside her, Pansy smiled lazily at the ceiling. It was easily some of the best she’d ever had, and all from an over-principled prig who worked too much and got too little. It was a shame they wouldn’t get the chance to do this again, but she hadn’t been shagged in nearly three months and she shuddered to think how long a dry spell it had been for Harry.


	4. Chapter 4

They had both silently rearranged themselves before Harry put a kettle on. The only sounds that followed were the tell-tale slurps, a remnant of his rude upbringing, and the clinks of the cups touching the saucers. He was uncomfortable with what had just occurred, Pansy knew, but it had thrilled her enough for the both of them.

The knock on the door seemed like it was coming from another planet, but Harry practically ran over to look out the peep hole. Opening the door slightly, he said something in a low voice to the visitor that Pansy couldn’t hear, but the reply was evidently the right one. The myriad of locks on the door came undone one by one as Harry touched his wand to each of them in turn to admit her new bodyguard. It was almost a relief to find that the man was neither attractive in the slightest nor a stranger, but one of the Aurors she had met at the Ministry.

“Pansy, this is Robert Dawlish. He’ll be taking you to your next safe house.” When Pansy barely deigned to nod at the surly Dawlish, Harry said, “Anyway, this is it.” Harry bent over and extracted something from his sock, which, to Pansy’s delight, was her wand. “Take this just in case.”

“Harry —”

“She’s not stupid, Rob. She knows not to run.” Harry cast a glance at Pansy as if to warn her away from doing just that.

Dawlish looked ready to disagree but merely grunted in acknowledgment. “Got everything in there?” he asked, gesturing toward the rucksack Harry had used to pack the few things she could call hers. Pansy nodded and headed toward the door, enjoying the pissy grumbling from Dawlish as he realised she was making him carry her bag. He stalked past her as she held the door open, saying something that vaguely resembled, “C’mon.”

Pansy glanced back at Harry and felt a sharp pang of regret that their earlier encounter would likely never be repeated. But she also wanted him to think about her more than she knew she would be thinking about him. With a wry smile, she blew a kiss and said, “Blondes aren’t really your type anyway.” She closed the door on his temporary confusion, but the smile still on her face wasn’t a genuine one; she was going to miss him.

To keep up with Dawlish, let alone to catch up to him, Pansy practically had to run. She didn’t think Harry would’ve approved of such slipshod work, considering he’d slept on the floor next to her for weeks on end and spent every waking day with her, as well. This Dawlish bloke probably couldn’t even make a decent cup of tea, let alone make her breakfast from unidentifiable meat and make it taste good every time.

Snapping out of her reverie, Pansy realised that she would be well-served to look around at her surroundings while out and about. Coincidentally, this was also when she figured out that she didn’t remember any of these buildings or streets. “Where are we?” she asked quietly.

“Moving. Now shut up and follow me.”

That doubt inside her gut, however, could not be ordered silent so easily, and Pansy felt it grow with every step. She didn’t like this man and wanted desperately to run back the way she came to Harry’s dirty little Muggle house where he hid himself from everyone.

Abruptly, Dawlish led her into a filthy little alley, one which made Pansy shiver. Every particle of her being screamed that she shouldn’t be there, but it spiked in imminence once Dawlish turned around to face her. His expression was bizarrely uncharacteristic to the point where he looked nearly orgasmic. It took a few seconds for her to register why that should make her feel so nervous, but the realization came on strong and swiftly.

“For an Auror, you certainly aren’t very clever,” she said with a resigned sigh. “Only weak minds and school children allow themselves to be Imperiused. Not to mention what this does to my chances of safety.”

“Quite right,” said a voice, _that_ voice, behind her. “I’ve been waiting for you to resurface.”

Pansy dreaded turning around to look at the man, because she knew exactly what he looked like and wouldn’t soon forget. Instead, she closed her eyes and said, “You killed Daddy. Why would you do that?”

“Because he was no longer useful to us. Silence is survival, Miss Parkinson. I’m disappointed that years under Snape’s way of doing things didn’t teach you that.”

“I didn’t betray you,” Pansy said, her voice quavering. “I don’t even know who you are. Who am I going to tell?”

“Potter, I should think. You two have been chummy for a while now. It didn’t take a whole lot of brain power to figure out you were with him. It just took a while before I got the chance to draw you out. Alas, poor Dawlish has had his brain tampered with so many times that it’s frightfully simple these days.”

Pansy wanted to vomit. This . . . whoever he was just wanted to toy with her and make her stink of her own fear before killing her. He was definitely a Death Eater; they cherished those sorts of things. But she was a Parkinson and a pure-blooded witch, born into a dignified family. She would be damned if her death was going to come by being shot in the back. Rolling her eyes at the half-dead eyes of Dawlish, Pansy turned to look her attacker square in the eye.

Or, at least, that was what she had intended. A blur of movement about fifty metres behind her assailant caught her eye, which was possibly the only chance she had of survival, at least in terms of a distraction long enough for her to draw her wand without being attacked. It was hard for her not to smile when the man didn’t seem to notice whatever was coming up behind him.

“Such a nice little girl, you are. It’s a shame you won’t be able to make a good pure-blood match and keep that sewage Muggles call blood from tainting our society completely. I guess it goes to show that people ought to choose their friends more wisely.”

It was toward the end of the mystery man’s lecture that Pansy was finally able to see what, or rather who, was approaching, and she could barely maintain her composure upon recognition. All she could think was that he had come to save her. But when Harry made a gesture as if indicating that she should keep going, it took a while for her to figure out what it meant. She was supposed to keep this guy talking.

However, said guy had noticed her abrupt change in demeanor but luckily not the source. “What I don’t get is,” she said, hoping he’d accept her confusion as trying to suss out what was going on, “why it took years for you to go after my father. Why not kill him off ages ago?” She hated the callous statement she had just made, but if it kept her alive, so much the better.

“He was not a threat until the Ministry decided to pursue him for crimes against Muggle-borns, but he bought his way out of it by breaking the trust of his clients. Azkaban would’ve been kinder.”

Dearly wishing this conversation was over, Pansy looked back at Harry, who was even closer to safe spell range. He signaled to keep going again, so she said, “Well, um, Azkaban is where your kind will end up.” Grimacing at her uninspired turn of phrase, she added before she could stop herself, “You’ll never get away with this.” The weird look Harry shot her made her want to laugh, only out of hysteria rather than amusement.

However, her father’s killer did laugh, but that sound held no mirth, either. It held ice and contempt and dread. “You really are still a child. Oh well,” he said as he trained his wand on Pansy, “you won’t be my problem anymore.”

Knowing she was a split second from certain death, Pansy looked at Harry beseechingly. He must have seen the increased danger, as he shouted, “Oi! Care to pick on someone who can actually fight you, Runcorn?”

The man Harry had identified as Runcorn turned to face Harry. “Well, you have an annoying habit of interfering in my plans, both four years ago and now.”

And that was all Pansy needed. More quickly than she’d have ever thought herself capable, she whipped out her own wand and shouted, “ _Expelliarmus_!” Runcorn’s wand flicked out of his hand in response, and soon he found himself on the wrong end of a Body-Bind Curse from Harry.

They stared at one another, Pansy and Harry, over the slumped form of Runcorn, but soon they ran toward one another. Harry caught her in his arms just in time to muffle her nearly uncontrollable urge to cry — for herself, for her father, for the fact that she had just cheated certain death and that Harry had helped her do that.

When he let her go, Pansy felt an immediate sense of loss. She just wanted to go home, wherever that was, but she knew that wasn’t possible until Runcorn was in custody. And Dawlish, she supposed, needed help, as he was currently sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, humming like a madman. Pansy linked her arm in his and ushered him toward where Harry was standing over Runcorn’s bound form. It was then that something occurred to her. “How did you know?”

“Dawlish being given this assignment. Proudfoot wouldn’t set him to guard a doghouse with as many times as he’s been bewitched.”

Something tingled inside of Pansy when she saw Harry’s jaw clench in disgust upon looking at Runcorn. “Who is he, anyway?”

“One of Umbridge’s old lackeys in the Ministry.” Still paying no attention to Dawlish, Harry said, “I have never wanted to kill someone so badly in my life.”

Knowing Harry didn’t truly mean that, Pansy quipped, “Too much paperwork. Let’s dump these two off at the Ministry and find better ways to spend the afternoon than scraping gits off the pavement.”

“Oh, and just what did you have in mind?” Harry said, failing in his effort to sound bored.

Pansy snickered, even through her still-falling tears. “Tell me, Potter . . . how do you feel about handcuffs?” Leaning in closely, she breathed, “I’ll be the good cop this time.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours and a mountain of paperwork later, Pansy found herself safe at last and curled languidly into Harry’s side on his sofa. The television was off, and both of them were simply sitting and staring at its dark grey expanse.

“What happened to good cop bad cop?” he mused.

Yawning loudly, Pansy said, “Spending time with your sweaty Auror mates tends to take the sexy right out of law enforcement. No shackles for you.”

Harry snorted as he reached for the remote. “I’m sure you’ll think of something else,” he said before switching on the set. When he saw the programme playing, he grunted in disgust. “God, this show is terrible!”

As he motioned to change the channel, Pansy swiped at the remote. “No, I like this one!”

Holding it just out of her reach, Harry said, “No way. It’s ridiculous and the theme song is really annoying and I’m not watching it!” Turning off the television, he sighed, “No TV, then. Now I reckon we’ll actually have to talk to each other.”

“Ha!” Pansy huffed. “Like _that_ will ever work.” Easing back into the perfect cocoon of his side, she decided that she didn’t miss the television after all. She was far happier snaking her fingers across his lap and to . . .

“Ow!” she cried, recoiling from the solid slap Harry had issued to the back of her hand.

“Presumptuous, are we?” Harry chided. “Don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten what happened earlier.”

Pansy’s mouth curled into a cat-like smile. “Good.” Not giving him time to react, she swung her leg over his and was straddling him before he could so much as utter a protest. “And yes, I am quite presumptuous.”

Still smirking, she claimed his mouth and allowed his retort to tickle her throat. His response was instantaneous and unmistakable, despite the annoyance on his face heavily contrasting what the rest of him was saying. _Oh, how delightful_.

“So, Potter, is that your wand or are you glad to see me?”

Not amused by the joke, Harry glared at her over the tops of his glasses, which had slipped down his nose in a strangely evocative manner. “Are you this shameless toward everyone, or am I special in some unfortunate way?”

Her hands flying to her chest as if she had just been stabbed, Pansy declared exaggeratedly, “Oh, woe is me! My _imzadi_ hates me!”

“First love . . . ha! I seriously doubt that no man has gone _there_ before. More like a star base.”

Playfully punching his shoulder, Pansy fired back, “Says the guy whose favourite character has a dinosaur face and anger issues. Hit a little close to home there, Potter?”

Snorting, Harry mused, “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not a chance.” Once again, Pansy plundered his mouth, but her reception this time was a far more active one as he tugged her torso closer to his. Lithely, he twisted their melded bodies until his back was on the sofa and she lay flat against his chest, their lips never once breaking contact. Enjoying the new dynamic, she ground her hips against his; the guttural groan he issued from the back of his throat in response made her tongue tingle in delight. Pulling back slightly, she hissed, “Preparing for warp speed, captain.”

His gaze in return was smouldering. Pansy had no doubt in her mind that Harry wanted her as much as she wanted him, and she was surprised to find that this mattered to her. He was the complete opposite of any man she had ever been with in that he shunned the world in which she thrived and belonged, living in a dingy little Muggle house just so he could be left alone for the first time in his life rather than utilise his fame. Weeks ago, she would never have understood this, but Pansy found herself fondly longing not for civilisation but to languidly sip tea at the very table upon which they had so passionately come together. And maybe have another go once the tea went cold — possibly before.

In her musing, Pansy hadn’t realised that Harry was looking up at her intently. “Pansy!” he said, in inflection telling her that he had tried to get her attention thus, merely rolling his eyes when he finally had it. That, however, did not last long, as her mood must have betrayed more of her thoughts than she had intended. “Are you okay?”

The tinge of genuine concern in his voice made Pansy’s heart thump a few beats faster. It was far from a declaration of devotion, but she knew that he was asking because he truly wanted to know, rather than as a formality. And, somehow, this revelation only heightened his appeal. Feeling even more adventurous, she whipped her jumper over her head and drank in the sight of his eyes exalting her newly bared flesh.

Coyly, she said, “Well, that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

And, with that, he did indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! I hope you enjoyed reading. It's not one of my usual ships, but I kinda like them after getting to know them. :)


End file.
